


The Fall

by chrucio



Category: The Song of Achilles - Madeline Miller
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-29
Updated: 2015-03-29
Packaged: 2018-03-20 06:08:04
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,299
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3639612
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chrucio/pseuds/chrucio
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The arrow had just struck him, and he laid, fallen on the ground. And he remembered. </p>
<p>He remembered Hector’s death had been a sort of signal for the battle to stop, for the Trojans to go back inside their walls and for the Greeks to get back to camp. Some soldiers were cheering behind him, but for the most part the air was heavy of silence and hushed whisper.</p>
<p>He remembered everything up until now..</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Fall

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mariuspondmercy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mariuspondmercy/gifts).



> This was originally posted on my Tumblr account.
> 
> The prompt I was given was "Patrochilles + things you said after it was over" and I hope I gave it justice! 
> 
> Enjoy yourselves then x

The arrow had just struck him, and he laid, fallen on the ground. And he  _ **remembered**_.

 

He remembered the thrill of the chase, and how the only thing he could see was the shining armour, moving through the battle,  _ **fighting**_ , killing. He tried to keep track of it, the glimpses of sunshine caught on gold. He slayed the men around him, making his way towards the only one he cared to be dead. One, two, ten, twenty, fifty, a hundred. He didn’t how many found their end at the end of his sword. He was a  _ **machine**_ , stepping on whimpering bodies, warm blood covering him. Every other death seemed to be a step closer to his goal. Only, his  _ **target**_  was constantly moving, unreachable. But suddenly, there he was, facing him. And he ran. He ran after Hector, after this damned armour, after himself.

The fight against the river god was a blur, a mere  _ **distraction**_. He never lost track of what he sought.  _ **Death.**_  Such a simple word that would tie his fate. Patroclus’ words echoed in his ears.

 

“ _ **You must not kill Hector.”**_

 

But he brushed them off, the hunt finally coming to an end when Hector stopped running. The killing in itself was quick, easy. He saw the accessible flesh between the ill fitted metal. And the _ **fear**_. He remembered seeing it in the other man’s wide eyes, he remembered smelling it, its scent mingling with sweat’s. His face was contorted in a rictus,  _ **cruel**_ lips curled and blood thirsty. More than ever, his spear felt right in his hand, an extension of himself, a deadly weapon.  
  


_"Grant me this."_ the other man started _“Give my body to my family, when you have killed me.”  
_

  
He felt like laughing, laughing until his stomach hurt. Did this Trojan believed he’d be capable of such kindness towards him? Towards the man who  _ **killed**_.. who killed Patroclus? Patroclus.. What would he say now? He shook his head and made a stifled sound.  
  


_"There are no bargains between_ _**lions** _ _and men. I will kill you and eat you raw.”  
_

His spear flew from his hand, launching itself on its own accord. He watched it pierce the soft skin, the blood spurting out of the wound. He remembered the  _ **deadly**_  precision with which he hit Hector. He saw the lights go out in his eyes, and his body fell heavily to the ground.  He’d never watched a man he killed fall like this before, he was always too busy slaying another one when it happened. It gave him a different feeling of finality, a sort of accomplishment. He felt..  _ **satisfied**_.

He remembered he let himself close his eyes for a second, seeing another body in the shinning metal. A smaller figure, with rich brown hair and tanned skin. Patroclus. He died in the same conditions, a spear through his body, his corpse clasped in this very armour, his skin stained by _ **blood and mud**_. He forced the tears to stay behind his closed lids. And a reborn rage seized him. He remembered tying Hector’s body to his cart, not bothering to retrieve his breastplate and helmet.  
  
He rode in front of the walls of Troy, their Prince’s corpse in his trails, and a stunned silence falling on the battlefield. Whispers started to rise..  
  


_"Is Hector **dead**?” _ they said _“Look! Isn’t this Achilles’ **armour**!” “No, Achilles is driving the chariot!” “But what is he doing with the body? Has he gone  **mad**?”  
_

Mad. Was he truly mad? Could they really say that of him? After losing the other half of his soul, did they expect him to be the same man? To still have compassion?  _ **Mad**_ _ **mad**_ _ **mad**_. Let them talk, he thought. He looked at the faces of the Trojans, their dumb struck horror, petrified by grieving and fear. He looked back in front of him, the bitter sweet pleasure of vengeance not strong enough to keep his thoughts from wandering back to him.  _Patroclus_. Would he ever say his name out loud again?  _ **Pa-tro-clus**_. Over the years, the name had matured, evolved, going from an innocent curiosity to a true understanding of the person before him.  
  


Patroclus.  
  
Sweet and caring Patroclus who  _ **saved**_  peasant girls from a life of abuse and rape.  
Loyal Patroclus who ran after him to Chiron’s moutain, who followed him into  _ **war**_.  
Loving Patroclus who  _ **kissed**_  his neck and bruised his skin with his lips.   
Brave Patroclus.. oh so brave he led an army to battle, uplifting spirits with the  _ **illusion**_  of a shining armour.  
Deadly Patroclus who threw spears with the accuracy of a  _ **hero**_  and instilled fear in the enemies’ minds.   
Stupid Patroclus who rode towards the impenetrable  _ **walls**_  of Troy.  
Stupid Patroclus who rode too near from where  _ **Hector**_  was standing.  
Damn brave, loyal and beautiful Patroclus who fell  _ **dead**_  to the ground.  
  


He gripped the reins tighter, his knuckles turning white. His jaw was set and his expression grim when he got back to their camp. Their  _ **home**_  for the last ten years. But it didn’t feel like home anymore, he didn’t have  ~~anything~~  anyone to get back to now. The small joy he had felt at the killing of Hector had faded and was replaced once again by an aching emptiness.  
  
He remembered Hector’s death had been a sort of signal for the battle to stop, for the Trojans to go back inside their walls and for the Greeks to get back to camp. Some soldiers were cheering behind him, but for the most part the air was heavy of silence and hushed whisper.  
  


_"Achilles killed Hector.."_  they said  _"he’s proved he’s the best of them all..!"  
_

_**Aristos Achaion**_ , they called him, best of all the Greeks. The best of the world. He’d defeated Hector after all. And so many others before him, he even defeated a  _ **god**_. Stories were beginning to spread like wildfire in the camp, with additional alterations as it went on from mouth to mouth. The whispers were still following him, a haunting reminder that now, more than ever, his seconds were counted. But far from being daunting, he remembered it was a relief. Finally. Finally he’d be  _ **free**_. Something he never truly was when he thought about it, prophecies after prophecies. But he did have a  _ **choice**_ , didn’t he? He could have chosen not to go to Troy, at the price of being forgotten. But he would have spent his life with Patroclus.

He remembered arriving at his tent and jumping out of his chariot, not caring about the corpse still attached to it. It was hard to care about your enemy’s corpse. He just laid on his bed and turned his head towards Patroclus. Death hadn’t affected him too much, he wasn’t decaying yet and the smell wasn’t too bad. He didn’t mind it all, he just wanted to be with Patroclus. He wanted him back and breathing.  _ **Alive**_. He grazed his cheek with the tips of his fingers.  _ **Pa-tro-clus**_. Oh, how his skin used to be warm under his touch, and how gently Patroclus’ hand would catch his, how soft the press of his lips was against his knuckles.

He lifted himself on his elbows, climbing on top of Patroclus, his fingers tangled in his brown hair. He rested their foreheads against each other and half closed his lids. 

  
_"Patroclus.."_  he knew he said softly, allowing himself to say his name once more, let it roll on his tongue. “ _I killed Hector.._ " He remembered sighing, almost of relief and contentment.  _"I’ll be there soon,_ _ **philtatos**_ _._ _”_

_  
_He remembered everything up until now, lying in the dirt, bleeding to death. And with eyes closed, he let himself whisper it _ **one last time**_.

  
“Patroclus..”  
  


Three neat syllables.  _ **Pa-tro-clus**_. Most beloved. Best of men. Best of the Myrmidons.


End file.
